


sitting pretty by the seaside

by zephryus



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, george is very easy to love and wilbur falls Hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:21:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29026401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zephryus/pseuds/zephryus
Summary: George is easy to fall in love with, he smiles pretty, and Wilbur's weak, heart hammering and overtaken with the urge to touch and kiss and hold.(or, George and Wilbur fall in love, and it's easier than breathing)
Relationships: GeorgeNotFound/Wilbur Soot
Comments: 60
Kudos: 301





	sitting pretty by the seaside

**Author's Note:**

> georgebur go brrrr also this is moo-moo-meadows on tungle's fault
> 
> (title from seaside by bears in trees because if there ever was a georgebur song it would be that)

Wilbur’s got George’s stream playing quietly in the background as he works through mundane tasks on his computer and his ears prick up when he reads out a dono asking about the instruments he plays. “Um, I can play some drums, and I have a guitar but I can’t really play it,” he says, mildly distracted. When Wilbur switches over to the tab he sees him battling ghasts, far more focused on staying alive. Absently, and almost without his permission, he thinks about how good he looks when he’s focused on the game.

He shuts down the thought just as fast as it comes, he’s not the first person to think that George is pretty, and he won’t be the last. And, he tries to convince himself, it’s probably just his lighting and his camera.

“So, do you use a Cam Link as well?” Wilbur asks out of curiosity, his voice sounds a little better now, after the yelling during the MCC roughed it up.

George looks to the side, and Wilbur’s caught by his side-profile before he starts paying attention to what he’s saying.

“No,” George says, a little sheepish, “I use a webcam.”

Wilbur’s brain shuts down a little at that, “I- Holy shit, man, looks good, looks good, it’s a good setup.”

George makes small jerky movements to the camera to show it off, making faces they both know are going to end up in edits set to Taylor Swift songs full of sparkly effects and soft pink filters. He changes the subject to their hypothetical cake date instead, and Wilbur drops the webcam thing in favor of teasing him about cake. George laughs easily, and he’s easy to like, Wilbur things, almost dangerously easy to love.

Later, Wilbur’s still thinking about how George only uses a webcam, and before he can convince himself out of it, he sends him a DM on Discord.

**Wilbur** _23:56_ I can’t believe you use a webcam dude that’s just unfair

His status still shows he’s online, but he’s surprised when he replies within a minute. In the back of his head, he remembers Tommy complaining about how long George takes to reply. Maybe today’s an outlier.

**George** _23:57_ your entire face is unfair

Wilbur, because he’s a grown man and not a teenager, resists the urge to scream into his pillow. It’s a near thing, though.

**Wilbur** _23:57_ Bold words coming from you, ‘Minecraft It Boy’

**George** _23:58_ to this day, i honestly have no idea what the fucj that means

Wilbur gets half way through explaining what an ‘it boy’ is before he clocks George. He blames the MCC and George swearing for his slowness in realizing.

**Wilbur** _00:02_ If you wanted me to call you pretty, you could have just asked

**George** _00:04_ image0.png you already did

It’s a screenshot of Wilbur’s first message, and he feels oddly caught out, even though he initiated it.

**Wilbur** _00:05_ Shut up!!

George spends so much time typing and stopping and typing and stopping Wilbur gives up when it comes to quarter past.

He wakes up to a flurry of Discord notifications, George’s among them.

**George** _00:21_ make me then. (edited)

It’s bordering on the edge of genuine flirting and he’s not entirely sure what to make of it, nor the butterflies rattling around his ribcage, or the way he’s anticipating his reply before he’s even pressed send.

**Wilbur** _09:31_ Come down to Brighton then

It’s well into the afternoon when George sends him a screenshot of the government website, detailing travel restrictions for London, with a row of the pensive emoji. Wilbur safely assumes that he’s just woken up. The conversation devolves into George’s godawful sleeping schedule, and why it is the way it is, and then into something else and then it never seems to really stop.

“Oh my god, George what’s wrong with your guitar? Can you even play?”

“I– what? Shut up! I can play,” George defends himself, fiddling with the tuning peg of the high E string, “it’s just an electric guitar that I can’t be bothered to plug in.”

“Mmm,” Wilbur says, his disbelief clear through the Discord call, “sure Gogy keep making excuses.” He’s got George’s stream open on a tab on his second monitor and sees him roll his eyes and deadpan into his webcam – like he knows Wilbur is watching his stream.

“He just can’t accept that he’s not the only musically talented one here,” Tommy cuts in, and immediately gets interrupted by Tubbo who gestures to the keyboard propped up behind him and threatens to bring Fundy into the call.

“Aw George don’t worry,” Wilbur says, over Tommy and Tubbo arguing, “when you come down for our cake date I’ll teach you.”

George hums and glances up into his camera again, this time softer, teasing, and he definitely knows that Wilbur’s watching, “I’ll look forward to it,” he murmurs, before Tommy asks him something inane and he gets pulled into a conversation mostly against his will.

They’re the only ones left in the call as it nears midnight, and George has long since stopped streaming, when Wilbur asks, “Do you actually know how to play or…?”

There’s a beat of silence, and he’s willing to bet that George just shrugged, despite knowing full well that Wilbur can’t see him. It’s so endearing he barely knows what to do with himself.

“I mean… like I know some chords and stuff but not really,” over the call he hesitates a bit, and Wilbur bites back the teasing remarks he has queued up. “When– If, if I come to Brighton, will you teach me?”

“Are you gonna come all the way to Brighton just to get taught how to play guitar?” even Wilbur himself can hear how soft his voice has gone, the incredulity curbed by something akin to wonder.

George stutters over the starts of his sentence, and it takes him a second to collect his thoughts, “I… well, you also owe me a cake date.”

George is careful in the way he talks and structures his sentences and his conversations – it had taken him far too long to realize that. He thinks it’s because he’s reserved, more than you would expect him to be, he keeps his cards close to his chest but distracts you so much that you wouldn’t even notice. It’s simultaneously fascinating and infuriating.

“Do you still want me to teach you?” Wilbur asks, gesturing with his head to his guitar laying next to him. They’re sitting on the beach, staring out to the sea, comfortable against the rocks and pebbles, cupcake wrappers screwed up in the box they came in. It’s nearing dusk, they have maybe an hour of sunlight before the moon and the constellations come out.

“Yeah?” George says, turning to face him. The wind had ruffled up his hair a little, and Wilbur’s overtaken with the urge to push his hand through it, torn between wanting to comb it back, or mess it up more.

Wilbur passes him the guitar and he shuffles around until he’s sitting cross-legged, with his left arm slung over the body, and his right hand curled over the neck. The way his fingers stand out against the dark fingerboard rapture Wilbur’s attention. He’s gorgeous, effortlessly, easily.

George looks at him expectantly, and strums experimentally. It sounds horrendous.

“You’re holding it upside down,” Wilbur says, as soon as he realizes.

“I’m left-handed,” George retorts, spreading out the fingers of his left hand, pinky first, thumb last, then curling them back into a fist. The whole movement takes him less than a second but it replays over and over in Wilbur’s mind.

“Colorblind and left-handed? Pick a struggle, man,” Wilbur says, on instinct, snapping himself out of the intense urge to hold hands with him.

“Colorblind, left-handed, and gay,” George corrects lightly, and when Wilbur looks at his face, he’s grinning slightly, more carefree than he’s ever seen, and he loves this side of George, the one that makes jokes as easy as anything, who opens up about himself in the smallest possible ways, because it feels like uncovering a new element each time.

Wilbur just shakes his head sagely. He moves closer to George, balances himself with his hand against the pebbles behind George, and reaches across him to take the neck of the guitar and rotates it so it’s sitting properly on him. Wilbur resituates himself so he’s more stable, pressed up against George.

“You know how to strum, right?” Wilbur murmurs. He’s inches above the skin of George’s neck. It’s exhilarating.

George twists his head to look behind him at Wilbur, “Yes, Wilbur.” And he knows he’s being sarcastic, but he’s infatuated by the shape of his name in George’s mouth, the way his lips move and the tiniest peek of his tongue.

“Just checking,” Wilbur grins, and George looks at his mouth before he looks down to the strings. “I’ll play the chords and you can strum,” Wilbur says. He explains the pattern to him until he’s got it on time, hand flexing over the metal, graceful, the edge of his thumb strokes over the thicker strings, and the tips his fingers dance over the thinner ones.

Wilbur moves just a little, so his hand is on George’s hip. He stumbles over his strumming, and then carries on as normal, leaning into his touch.

Wilbur murmurs the lyrics to him, _Can’t help falling in love_ , because he’s a cliché. George grins when he recognizes the tune, and a pretty pink blush spreads over the bridge of his nose and spills over onto his cheekbones, when it fully clocks.

George looks over his shoulder at Wilbur again, when he reaches the end of the song, and his strumming comes to a stop, a soft C chord rings out into the atmosphere and gets drawn away by the wind and drowned out by the sea. The sky across the horizon is closer to orange than blue, and the edge of the sun nearly meets the line where the sea disappears.

George is so close Wilbur can see the constellations of freckles scattered over his nose and his cheeks, despite the dim light. He’s bathed in orange, and the sun casts shadows that highlight the cuts of his bones. He’s beautiful, and he’s looking at Wilbur like he’s a work of art. Wilbur’s heartrate skyrockets, and it’s a wonder George can’t hear it shaking in his chest. He’s so close he can see the details of his irises, and the way the sun reflects off them makes it seem like they’re made of gold. It’s exhilarating.

George moves his head millimeters closer to Wilbur’s, asking a question that he answers by closing the gap, kissing him gently and softly. He’s grinning when they pull apart, slightly out of breath and a little flushed. And before Wilbur can say something, before he can break the quiet stillness between them, George discards the guitar, pushes it away to the side, turns around properly, and kisses him again, and again and again until the sun hangs so low in the horizon half the sky is dark and the moon is already up.

They stay wrapped up in each other until the moon has officially taken over and the stars come out.

“Can’t see the stars in London,” George murmurs, pulling away to look directly up. Wilbur kisses the edge of his jaw, because he can’t help himself, because he’s allowed to now.

“No,” he replies, “you can’t.”

Eventually, they go back to Wilbur’s house, when it’s too cold to stay and George is yawning, leaning on Wilbur for support. When they make their way up the beach, George reaches across and threads his fingers through Wilbur’s and presses his palm flat against his, clear and deliberate. Wilbur readjusts his guitar slung over his shoulder and squeezes his hand in return.

George is easy to like and easy to love, and easy to fall in love with, but he’s hard to open up, he’s private to a fault, but when he laughs, when he tips his head back and the orange glow of the streetlight catches him just right, Wilbur thinks he’s discovered something new.

**Author's Note:**

> i hoped u liked it!! leave a comment/kudo if you enjoyed <3
> 
> ily, drink water and take care of yourself <3


End file.
